


Waiting There For You

by BulletBlaze



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alternative Universe - FBI, Always Female Derek Hale, Always Female Stiles Stilinski, F/F, Genderswap, Mild Smut, vague descriptions of a murder
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-30
Updated: 2017-10-30
Packaged: 2019-01-26 11:31:43
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,841
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12556460
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BulletBlaze/pseuds/BulletBlaze
Summary: “Just give me another week, I’m sure I’ll make a breakthrough-”“Stiles, this is not up for discussion. Either take the partner, or you’re off the case. It’s your decision.”





	Waiting There For You

**Author's Note:**

  * For [BitchFaceSam](https://archiveofourown.org/users/BitchFaceSam/gifts).



> So, this is my first time writing smut, ever. Please be gentle.  
> Yes, this is named from "Africa" by Toto. Don't ask why, because I don't know.  
> I really hope bitchfacesam, and everyone else, enjoys this!  
> Also, I have no idea how the FBI works, so jot that down.

There wasn’t much that could surprise Stiles these days. After the murder cases she stole from her dad’s files and solved during recess when she was in middle school to the supernatural mess she got tied up in during high school, the FBI was nothing new. Same stress, same nightmares, same damn job to do. Now, she just had to wear a uniform and her team wasn’t comprised of whatever in-the-know friends could afford to skip another night of studying.

But just because Stiles wasn’t impressed by the FBI didn’t mean they weren’t impressed by her.

Soaring easily through her classes and later bounding up the ranks, Stiles was a prodigy. A name many in the bureau knew and a face not many expected upon introduction. Not only was she obviously young, but her pixie cut, pale skin, and impish features made her appear… soft. Not someone acclimated to hard nights of investigation, or tough decisions that could save lives, or pulling the trigger on lethal criminals. She was underestimated, and that was what turned her inevitable ascent into a rocket, blasted up into the sky.

So yes- Stiles was talented. She was talented and enthusiastic and persistent and stubborn and-

Tired. Stiles was fucking tired.

Exhausted.

Because this  _ goddamn case  _ would just not fucking budge. She had read over it seemingly thousands of times, had spoken to possible leads until both of their ears bled, had examined the photos from every angle possible- staring long into the night, only sleeping when her eyes refused to stay open and the file fell from her limp fingers.

She was tired and she was desperate.

And apparently too fucking slow.

“What the hell? I don’t need a partner, I need some goddamn time!”

“Stiles,” Rafael sighed, reaching out to rest a hand on her shoulder. “This case is bigger than you, okay? It’s bigger than all of us. There’s a reason you’ve been assigned to it. You’re the best damn agent here, but that doesn’t change the fact that sometimes you need some help.”

Logically, Stiles knew he was right. She didn’t think she was smarter than the others, just… more experienced. More informed about the things that  _ really  _ went bump in the night.

However, it was still really fucking annoying.

“What makes you think this person, my new partner or whatever, is going to push things along any quicker than what I’ve got going now?”

“She just has this…” he paused, face pinched as he searched for the right word. “Intuition. An instinct to rival yours. I think you two would push each other, force each other to consider options and come to realizations you wouldn’t otherwise.”

Stiles searched his face with her detective eyes, seeking out any information he was hiding from her. If there was anything to be found, it was well hidden, and screw Rafe McCall for being such a damn good agent. His poker face could clean pockets nationwide.

Still, she couldn’t let this go without just one more vain attempt.

“Just give me another week, I’m sure I’ll make a breakthrough-”

“Stiles, this is not up for discussion. Either take the partner, or you’re off the case. It’s your decision.”

Stiles rolled her eyes dramatically. They both knew she would never give up a case, but that didn’t mean she was going to act happy about it. “Fine. How long do I have before she gets here?”

Rafe raised a judgmental eyebrow. “Because you’re obviously dying to know, her name is Dara Hale and she’s part of one of our special units. She’s been working for us for just upwards of seven years and her ability to find evidence is-”

“How long, Rafe?” Stiles interrupted, no shame to be felt.

A pause, a sigh, and then, “About an hour.”

“Wha- an hour?! Are you kidding me?”

Agent McCall raised his hands in defense against Stiles’ flailing arms and flying expletives.

“At least you have a little time to get yourself in order-”

“Yeah, thanks for the ample warning, dickface, now I have time to shower off the days of sleep deprivation and try to make a decent first impression.”

“And when have you ever cared about first impressions?”

Stiles grumbled about twig-wanking fuckwads the entire way out of the building and to her jeep.

 

___

 

After taking a frantic and probably insufficient shower, Stiles was freshly dressed and headed back to the office, hair still damp and not quite neat and not caring one bit.

That is, until she opened the door to her office and came face to face with a woman. A woman with long dark hair, strong shoulders and arms, and eyes that, although squinted in scrutiny, were the most beautiful mix of green, brown, and blue that Stiles had ever seen.

Maybe she should’ve brushed her hair.

But it was too late for that, so instead she nervously ran a hand through it, trying to make it look somewhat presentable but probably only making it spike up in a million different directions. Then she took a deep breath and held out her hand.

“Hi, you must be Agent Hale. I’m-”

“Agent Stilinski,” said the woman, accepting Stiles’ hand in her hand and shaking firmly, tightly.

Stiles saw her eyes flick up to her hair with an almost imperceptible smirk, and Stiles nervously drew back her hand to rake back through the strands. Here was this gorgeous specimen of an agent, looking strong and professional, and then there was Stiles. Thin from stress, pale from lack of sleep, and a porcupine on her head. God, she was always fucking this kind of shit up.

It occurred to her as she led Agent Hale over to her desk that Rafael had been right. When did Stiles ever care about first impressions? The answer was, somewhat unfortunately, never. So why did she care so much now? 

The answer was, much more unfortunately, because Stiles had never been more attracted to someone than she was right now.

Maybe it was the sleep deprivation.

Stiles pulled a copy of the case file out from the second drawer of her filing cabinet and walked back around to the front of the desk, hopping up to sit on the top of it and gesturing for Dara to join her.

Dara didn’t, but she did move closer to better see the file. Stiles figured it was good enough.

“Okay, so I’m sure you’ve already gotten a rundown of what’s going on, but I’ll go over this anyway. Taylor Spellman was found dead in the Waban River, his body ripped to pieces, spread several miles apart along the bank of said river. No pattern to how the body parts were placed, just seemingly dropped at random.”

“What time were they found?” Dara cut in.

“They appeared to have washed up on the shore in the span of about an hour, from 8 to 9 in the evening on the night of the 17th. Fishermen and passersby confirmed that they hadn’t been there earlier in the day, so we can assume they were dropped from a boat in the river piece by piece as the murderer or murderers travelled down the river.”

“Spellman was an assistant editor, correct?” asked Dara.

“Yep, worked right down the street at Beacon Publishers, actually. Had been working there for about fourteen months.”

Stiles and Dara went over the case for hours, eventually migrating to the sofa in the corner of the room- a sofa that had acted as Stiles’ bed a few dozen too many times. They researched the company Spellman worked for, they looked over the placement of the body parts, they studied the lab results from forensics. Every angle Stiles had already considered was pushed further and further, every statement was read and every interview recording was listened to, every thought that had crossed Stiles’ mind was fully explored and brought into new and interesting lights by Dara.

Stiles would admit, Rafael had also been right about them pushing each other. The bickering started about fifteen minutes into their work, and it didn’t stop until the sun had disappeared and both women were holding back yawns and rapidly blinking drooping eyelids. It was then that they called it a night, having come up with a list of new angles to further investigate come morning.

“You need a place to sleep?” Stiles asked as the two walked down the still hallways of the building.

Dara shook her head and replied, “I have a hotel room a few blocks down. My things are already there.”

It was then that Stiles noticed that Dara wasn’t carrying a suitcase, and that Rafael had probably made sure to get her a place to stay. It made sense, but Stiles couldn’t help the slight feeling of disappointment. 

But she pushed it away easily and said, “Of course. You need a ride?”

Dara gave Stiles a calculating look, but not a judgmental one. Just curious, and something else Stiles couldn’t quite decipher, which was saying something.

“Yeah,” she said eventually. “Yeah, that’d be good.”

 

Later that night, when Stiles had crawled into bed, she couldn’t get Dara out of her head. She was gorgeous and stubborn and sharp and sarcastic and-

_ Fuck,  _ Stiles was horny. So fucking horny, which was something she hadn’t had time to feel in a long ass while.

It was kind of nice. And kind of scary at the same time.

Nonetheless, she didn’t hesitate to take care of it, and she fell asleep right after, sated and already eager to wake up in the morning.

 

___

 

The investigation was not going well.

Okay, it was going better than it had been before Dara came onto the scene, but that still wasn't saying much. Stiles and Dara spent the next few days travelling from place to place, talking to a variety of different people with a variety of different insights that all pointed to one thing.

No one knew who would ever want to kill Taylor Spellman.

Apparently, he was a liked guy. Not the greatest, but also not bad. Just kind of average. Kind of boring. Flew under the radar of most social circles and wasn't the kind to mingle in his spare time.

But people still liked him because he was kind, and he was a good listener, and he could be quite funny when he wanted to.

Eventually the two agents stopped by his workplace, having gotten nothing of apparent use from friends and neighbors. His family was sparse and far away, and the phone calls were also unhelpful.

The evening passed as Stiles and Dara spoke to near everyone in the building. Spellman’s office was on the third floor of the building, and, according to his co-workers, he did most of his work at home from his own computer, anyway. The office was pretty bare- a few papers in a pile on the desk, and picture of his family hanging on the wall, and an empty wastebasket perched in the corner.

“Well, this blows,” muttered Stiles.

Dara nodded in agreement before turning to the worker standing by the door. “We're going to check his computer, if you could get us the password.”

“Yes, of course,” replied the employee, rushing down the hall to presumably get the code.

“Won't it just be full of pages to be edited and shit? I’ve already checked his email, nothing of use there.”

Dara sat down at the computer and turned it on just as the worker came back into the room, holding out a piece of paper with several things listed on it.

“This is all of his work usernames and passwords. We obviously don't have his personal information, but I figured this could help,” they said, holding out the paper for Stiles to take. The frown on their face was one of sadness, and the two agents felt them. The building had lost someone they liked, and someone who had been good at their job. 

“Thank you,” said Stiles. “We'll only be a bit.”

“Take your time,” was all the employee said before they disappeared.

“Let’s start with his work email,” suggested Dara.

Stiles sighed, aggravated, and said, “I already told you, I’ve checked it. And his personal one. It’s just a bunch of client stuff, nothing threatening or ominous.”

“Well,” Dara replied, a harmless edge to her voice. “Maybe you missed something.”

Stiles scoffed. “Yeah, right.”

Taylor Spellman’s email was bursting at the virtual seams. Hundreds of emails filled the inbox, many unanswered, as Taylor had died before they had even been sent. Dara sorted through them quickly and efficiently, forwarding any of interest to her own email for closer inspection later. Eventually, the inbox was empty and the two still had no real lead.

“Check the trash,” suggested Stiles.

It was there that they uncovered a succession of emails by a woman named Isabelle Thompson, and Dara clicked on the first one. It was a simple message; Isabelle was inquiring as to why she hadn’t gotten an edited copy of her piece back yet. The next email was a bit more persistent, but still not harsh. It was clearly a reply to an email Taylor had sent back to her in response to her first message. Once again, the question was about her work, which Taylor had seemingly deemed to not be what the company was interested in.

It was the last of the string of emails by Ms. Thompson that had Dara’s eyebrows pulling together in thought. It was a short email, simply saying, “Thank you for your time.” However, something about it, after the persistence of the previous messages, rubbed Dara the wrong way.

“I want to go talk to her,” was all Dara said.

And just like that, no matter how flimsy it seemed, the agents had a possible lead.

 

___

 

“A nineteen-year-old girl. What the fuck?!” yelled Stiles incredulously, still not quite believing the outcome of their investigation.

Four arrests had been made that night. The first had been on one Isabelle Thompson, a young adult who had organized the murder of Taylor Spellman after he had rejected her manuscript on two separate occasions.  

She had given herself up easily enough, apparently already feeling the guilt eating away at her mind every minute, waking and sleeping.

The other three arrests were of the hired men she had played to do the dirty work. One drove the boat, one kidnapped and led Taylor to said boat, and the other was responsible for the death in itself.

Isabelle swore that she didn't plan to have Taylor killed, and that it just kind of happened by accident. She just wanted her manuscript to go through, that was all. But one minute Goon #3 was beating his face to a bloody pulp, and the next he had stopped breathing. Panicking, Isabelle had instructed the men to get rid of the body immediately and to make it hard to find. That's when Goon #2 brought out the hacksaw.

After weeks of painful investigation, the end results were… underwhelming. Too easy. Disappointing. Stiles was kicking herself for not having been able to find them on her own.

But she had thanked Dara anyway, and was already feeling some sort of sadness at the prospect of her leaving. Dara had made the job so much better- so much easier. And not necessarily in an investigative sense, but in a mental sense. They had bickered and fought and snarked and kept up with one another. Stiles may have even gone so far as to say they flirted. It had been almost just as fun as it had been frustrating. Well, as fun as it could get while investigating a murder.

So Stiles, not wanting to end this thing they had going white yet, invited Dara back to her place for a celebratory drink. Dara agreed easily, and that's how they found themselves lounging on Stiles’ couch, passing back and forth a bottle of wine. Their legs met in the middle, bracketing each other and radiating heat. 

“Young people can be just as shitty as older people,” said Dara, like she knew firsthand, and that was a story Stiles wanted to hear but wasn't going to press for. Right then, she was simply content to sit there and enjoy Dara’s company.

The two sat without talking, the only noise being the quiet talking coming from the TV in the background. Stiles shifted, moving her legs to get more comfortable, and her foot brushed against the inner skin of Dara’s leg, by her knee.

Dara’s eyes snapped up to Stiles’ face, expression blank except for a small flicker of… something in her eyes. Stiles didn't quite know what it meant, but she decided to take a risk as her heart started hammering, anyway. Dragging her foot further down Dara’s leg, she held eye contact the whole time. She watched as Dara’s nostrils flared, as her eyelids fluttered almost imperceptibly, as her leg stretched, resting closer to Stiles’ own.

Then Stiles pushed her leg back up, rubbing her foot up to Dara’s thigh, stopping just under the hem of the shorts Stiles had let her borrow. A slow, loud exhale passed Dara’s nose, and it shuttered as it escaped.

It was on the next downstroke of her foot that Dara broke.

In a heartbeat, Stiles found herself pinned to the couch, hands held above her head and Dara staring heartedly down upon her. But she didn't do anything. Stiles realized through her haze of want that, despite all the buildup, Dara was still waiting for permission.

And, well, who was Stiles to want to stop her?

She had barely nodded before Dara was leaning down and pressing their lips together firmly. The weight of her mouth wasn't hard, nor was it frantic; it was confident. Sure. It was relieved.

It was perfect.

Stiles dragged her closer, tugging until Dara gave and let go of her hands, and used them to pull the woman all the way down on top of her. They both moaned at the way their bodies lined up from head to toe, feeling the warmth seep from each other’s skin into their own. Stiles’ fingers buried themselves in Dara’s hair, tugging lightly and revelling in the moans it brought forth from her throat, bubbling up almost as if against her will.

Dara bit lightly at Stiles’ lip and Stiles let out a whimper so pathetic, she felt her flush increase tenfold, but she couldn't find herself to really be embarrassed. Not with the way Dara was grinding down with her hips.

“Fuck,” Stiles breathed against the lips wrapped up in her own. “I've wanted to do this- shit, yeah- to do this since I first met you.”

“Me, too,” croaked Dara, moving her lips down Stiles’ jaw and to her throat, sucking bruises that Stiles would find the will to worry about later when it didn't feel so damn good. “You’re so fucking obnoxious.” Dara punctuated her breathless confession with a lick to Stiles’ neck. “And stubborn.” Another lick. “And I can’t get you out of my head.” This time a bite, and Stiles gasped, arching up into Dara’s strong body.

She had enough of the teasing. Enough foreplay. The buildup had started days ago, they didn’t need to build it up any more.

So Stiles wrapped an arm around Dara’s back and flipped them, pushing her into the cushions and kissing her again, hard and fast. Dara’s eyes were blown wide as Stiles moved down her neck and chest, pushing up her shirt to press kisses to the soft skin of her stomach. Then she moved lower.

Dara’s breath hitched, coming quicker with every brush of lips against the skin just above her waistband. When Stiles looked up, an urgent question burning in her eyes, Dara could only nod. The next thing they knew, Dara’s shorts had been yanked down her legs and tossed to the floor and Stiles’ head was buried between her thighs, tasting her through her panties. Her fingers gripped tightly at Dara’s skin, leaving white marks where her hands pushed too hard. Dara was making the most addictive moans and gasps- stilted, as if she was trying to hold them back and failing.

Stiles didn’t want her to hold back. Not when she was leaving so soon.

So she moved the underwear to the side with one hand and dived back in, giving it her all and revelling in the expletives now spilling from Dara’s lips without restraint. With Stiles’ enthusiasm paired with the sexual tension that had been stacking up against them, it didn’t take long before Dara was shuddering, hissing through Stiles’ name, stomach quivering uncontrollably with pleasure. 

Once she had come back down from her high, Dara pushed at Stiles’ shoulders, sitting up and forcing Stiles to rise to her knees. Dara also positioned herself onto her own knees before gripping Stiles tight by the hair on the top of her head and crashing their mouths together, uncaring of the wetness drenching Stiles’ chin and lips. Her hand crept down Stiles’ torso, trailing over her abdomen and caressing her thigh before moving back to slip beneath the fabric of her shorts and underwear. Stiles groaned and mouthed at Dara’s shoulder as Dara worked her fingers. Stiles came to an embarrassingly quick release, grinding down on Dara’s hand the whole time, prolonging the intense pleasure until she was left a shaking mess. 

Her weight fell onto Dara, who laid them back down, running a hand through Stiles’ hair, scratching at her scalp as they both breathed heavily. 

Neither spoke until almost an hour later.

“So, you’re leaving in the morning.”

Dara was quiet, but Stiles could feel her heartbeat pounding through her chest. It made Stiles long for something she hadn’t even lost yet.

“You know,” Dara started, then paused again. “I never really liked it at my base. I’ve been thinking of transferring somewhere else for a long time.”

Stiles felt her pulse quicken as hope rose inside of her.

“I just never knew where I would go.”

Stiles realized that Dara was waiting. Waiting for Stiles to ask her to stay.

And who was Stiles to deny her?

 

___

 

The next morning, Dara drove back to her location and scheduled a meeting with her superior, Chris Argent. When Dara texted Stiles that night, she relayed that it hadn’t even been difficult for Argent and McCall to agree to let her transfer bases. Within a few weeks, she had moved out of her apartment and brought her few possessions into Stiles’. The agents at work told Stiles they were moving way too fast, and they were probably right. But she just had this feeling that it would work out. Dara told her late one night as they laid in bed that she felt it, too.

And if there was one thing that could be said about agents Dara Hale and Stiles Stilinski, it was that their instincts were almost never wrong.

**Author's Note:**

> Hope that wasn't too weird or rushed!  
> Also, this is probably as good of a place as any to say that this is probably going to be my last fanfiction. I'm just so focused on my sad attempt at making original outlines for shows and movies and such to concentrate on these stories. So thank you to anyone who has read my stuff and enjoyed it! It means a lot <3  
> Feel free to throw me a line about what you thought of this! It would really make my day :)


End file.
